


Bodies and Souls

by wanderlustnostalgia



Series: Coming Down [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Halsey (Musician), Heirsound (Band), Love Robot (Band), My Chemical Romance, PVRIS (Band), Panic! at the Disco, Paramore, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Background Relationships, Cancer, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Everyone Has Issues, F/F, F/M, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Mikey Way/Pete Wentz, Past Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie, Photography, Substance Abuse, Suffering, brendon is sad and drunk, nobody can get over their exes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9538646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustnostalgia/pseuds/wanderlustnostalgia
Summary: "Do you always make a habit of moving in with random strangers?""Only when it's convenient."--Ashley is a runaway, waiting tables at a cabaret-turned-lounge and living with two strangers.  Lynn is a struggling photographer who tends bar at said cabaret-turned-lounge to make ends meet.  The two, naturally, form a very lucrative partnership, but between Ashley's demons, Lynn's girlfriend, and the complex web of mysteries and relationships that entangles them and their colleagues, they have a lot to face down if they want that happy ending.





	1. prologue - we'll be looking for sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> The world needs more Lynn/Halsey.
> 
> Title taken from "You and I" by PVRIS.

_i'm a wanderess, i'm a one-night stand,_

_don't belong to no city, don't belong to no man._

 

There's a park bench near her house that sits facing away from the playground, away from the children's shrill laughter and deafening screams and towards the endless expanse that is the open road.  It stands alone in the darkness, illuminated by a lone streetlight a few feet away, the dedication plaque on its faux-wood panel barely legible.

She sits here now, the wind cold against her exposed knees, as she hugs her satchel to her chest and draws her arms around herself to trap the heat.  Of all the months to leave home, it had to be fucking January.  She's pretty sure her mom burned her nice faux-leather jacket a few weeks ago after one of their more volatile falling-outs, or else her dad took it away after he caught her smoking pot again.  She makes do with an old jean jacket for now, and under any other circumstance she would cringe at the combination of denim-on-denim, but right now all she can think about is how fucking cold she is, and how fucking numb--not just her fingers and her toes, but everything else.  It's like she's completely shut down, and it's not an unfamiliar feeling, but not altogether an unpleasant one, when she considers the alternative.

She used to come here with Him sometimes, after school or sometimes even in the middle of class, and she would lean her head on His shoulder and He would interlace His fingers with hers and they would sit, watching the cars pass by on their way to god knows where.  Probably somewhere mundane like the grocery store or the post office, but her imagination was always bigger than that, always imagining two lovers running off into the sunset together like a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde.  She always thought when they left, it would be together, their own story of outlaws in love, Him in the driver's seat and her next to Him with the window rolled down, her head sticking out and her eyes laughing, always laughing, as He turned the radio up a little louder and sang with that raspy voice she loved so goddamn much.

She fishes in her pocket for a cigarette and places it between her lips, lighting it with her other hand.  She takes a drag, breathing in the smoke, and thinks of how both of her parents would be losing their shit right about now.  She tells herself she really doesn't care, and that they don't either; they're just trying to make themselves feel less guilty.  Inhales again, then exhales, lips puckered, blowing rings into the night air.  He taught her how, the summer before her junior year.  She was better at it than He was, and it made Him angry.  She's always been good at making Him angry, even when they were together.

Park bench at night, past curfew, with a bag containing half her clothes, a pack of cigarettes, and a dime bag, and no choice but to keep going--she's three for three now, as always.

She wonders if maybe she should go the extra mile and chop off her hair, as a final fuck you to her mom and to her dad and to all the bitches and assholes at her school and most of all to Him, because He always liked her hair long, always used to lie with her in the early hours of the morning and play with it, twisting it around His fingers and murmuring about Rumpelstiltskin and spinning straw into gold (and she would giggle and kiss Him, of course, because she was a sucker for fairy-tale shit like that).  She dismisses the notion immediately--she has nothing to cut it with, mainly because she thinks her parents would have a conniption fit if she left with one of their knives, and she doesn't want to give them anything more to worry about.  She wonders what that says about her as a person--the fact that she's perfectly willing to ditch her parents and her home and her life, but won't take a knife out of the fucking pantry because she doesn't want to scare them.

She lights another cigarette.  Smokes it.  Drops it.  Crushes it beneath her boot.  The visions that hover in her mind while she does it are vengeful and satisfyingly gruesome.

She pulls something else from her pocket, a Polaroid.  It's the last photo of the two of them, taken in Long Island, His hand on her shoulder and hers hooked around His waist and both their tongues sticking out like the cringy scene kids they are.  His illegible scrawl is blurred, smeared at the bottom, and she remembers perfectly well what it said, but she doesn't want to think about it.  She doesn't care anymore, she reminds herself--she's done fucking caring.

The lighter flicks on again, casting a warm yellowish glow on her face.  She holds the photo up to the flame, and watches it burn.


	2. california never felt like home to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I could get you a one-way plane ticket out of here if you want."
> 
> 20 miles is not a large enough distance between her and her hometown.

She spends the first few nights crashing with a guy named Frank.  Frank works at a liquor store just a few miles outside of Clark and he recognizes her from when she used to go all the time with her friends and buy cheap wine just for the hell of it.  She buys a can of Red Bull and a small baggy of chewy Chips Ahoy!, just because she's starving, and even though she's got a pretty convincing fake ID he still raises an eyebrow and asks her, "Aren't you supposed to be in school?"

She lets out a low, harsh chuckle.  "Fuck school," she tells him, sweeping her hair over her shoulder for good measure.  "I don't need that shit."

Frank nods with understanding.  He seems like the kind of guy who's been through enough shit of his own to know not to ask too many questions.  "Need a place for the night?"

She taps her fingers against the counter as she considers his offer.  She'd been planning on staying with her grandma, but then her grandma would've most certainly wanted to let her parents know where she was, and that would open a whole other shitload of worms that she really doesn't want to get into.  Besides, Frank seems like a nice enough guy--the type of guy who inks his arms and screams punk rock at the top of his lungs, and yet has the eyes of a puppy dog.  She always gravitates toward the people her parents tell her to stay away from.

"What've you got?" she asks him.

A few hours or so later she ends up in the passenger seat of his beat-up Audi ("Rich parents," he offers by way of explanation), staring idly out the window while he taps his hand on the dashboard and hums along to old Ramones songs.  She asks him where they're going and he tells her he lives in Belleville, a few blocks from his parents.

"That's a long drive to make at five in the morning," she says, and he laughs and tells her he likes driving unnecessary distances just to see the sunrise.

"One of many things that piss my parents off," he says, and she smiles for the first time in three days because he _gets it_.

He offers her a room in the basement, which is sparsely furnished and barely decorated but at the very least has a halfway decent mattress she can use.  He's sorry he can't offer her any better, but she shakes her head and tells him that's okay, she's always preferred floors anyway.  He nods, and after he leaves, she dumps her stuff on the floor and collapses on the bed.

It still hasn't sunk in yet that she's done it--that she's actually gone and  _left_  without so much as a goodbye to her family.  She wonders how long it will take before she cracks, before all the pressure that's been building up and pushed back down beneath the surface finally bursts out of her in a horrible, spectacular display of screaming and tears.  Her mind wanders and she starts to think about Him, about  _them_ , about crashing on mattresses in basements in the dark whenever His power went out because He blew His rent money on cocaine, about His shit scattered across the floor and His hair an unkempt mess, about His hand on her hips and His mouth on her jaw and her lips on His forehead and her hands in His hair as they melted into each other time and time.  She rolls over on the mattress and groans, shoving a pillow over her face.

Everything comes back to Him.

 

She can't stay with Frank forever. Sooner or later someone will come find her, and even if they don't, she'll have to go out and get an actual job anyway, because eventually the well's going to run dry or Frank will get a cushy new job in Newark or some shit or maybe even possibly a girl-(boy?)-friend and it's going to get crowded and awkward and uncomfortable with her still living in the basement.

"You know you're welcome to stay for as long as you need," he says on her third night, when she brings up her concern. "I don't care. It gets lonely out here."

"What, no friends?" she says, teasingly.

"Nah, they all moved out to LA or New York after college. Trying to make it big or some shit. I never got that far." He waves his hand dismissively, shaking his head. "I understand if you don't want to stick around, though."

She sighs, lifting a shoulder noncommittally. "I just...I don't know. You know how it is. 20 miles doesn't--it's too close, you know?"

Frank nods. "I wish I could help you there," he says, before stopping himself.  "Actually, I could get you a one-way plane ticket out of here if you want."

She starts to protest, but he shakes his head, holding up a hand.  "I was supposed to fly out to LA on Tuesday.  I bought a plane ticket and everything.  I was gonna go visit my friend who lives there and we were gonna go out and catch a show or something, but then a bunch of shit happened that I'm not gonna get into because it would take too long and I don't want to bore you with the gory details.  Just--basically, I have a plane ticket to LA that I can't use but can't exactly get refunded, so you might as well take it from me."

She shakes her head, says something about how she can't repay him for that and it's way, way too generous of him, especially to a girl he's known for less than a week, but his insistence is so polite and yet somehow so forceful that she complies anyway.  She's not sure what kind of shithole LA is, but there's no way it's any worse than Clark.

She spends one more night at Frank's, another night in which she thinks of Him but dreams of nothing, and in the morning he drives her to Newark.  He gives her four $20 bills and tells her to take as long as she needs to get her shit together before paying him back.

"If they ask, just tell them 'Frank' is short for 'Francesca'," he says, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.  "Or your parents just had a really weird sense of humor."

She attempts a laugh, but it comes out weak and forced.  The awkwardness lingers thick in the air.  Not wanting to trouble him any further, she pulls him into a hug, arms wrapping around his waist.  "Thanks, Frankie.  I mean it.  You're the fucking best, you know that?"

"I know, and don't you forget it."  He rubs circles on her back, squeezes her tightly.  Her dad used to give hugs like this, but she can't think of Frank and her dad in the same context or else she'll start associating Frank with all the other bad things in Jersey.   _This is not an end,_  she tells herself firmly.   _This is a beginning._

They pull apart, finally, and she's surprised to see Frank has tears in his eyes.  He swipes at his nose and smiles, excited despite himself.  "Good luck, Ashley," he says, not taking his eyes off her.  He pats her on the shoulder, then shoves her lightly, so she stumbles backward.  She cries out in mock indignation, but she can't stay mad at him, not when his eyes are so glassy and red and his grin is so defiantly wide.  "Go get 'em, tiger."

Ashley heads over to the revolving door, her eyes beginning to water.  There's a familiar and unexpected tingling sensation in her nose that she really, really wishes hadn't chosen now to finally show up.  She looks back over her shoulder as they move forward, spares one last glance at Frank, who's standing there faithfully with his hands in his pockets.  He nods, and the weight of what he's done for her and what she's about to do hits her like a truck, and all she can think about as she makes her way through the airport is how much she owes him for this, how the rest of her life will most likely be determined by the actions of one kind stranger for whom she's done virtually nothing in return.

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and makes a promise to herself that no matter what happens or where she ends up, she will find some way to pay back Frank Iero.

She boards the plane, takes her seat by the window, presses her face to the glass, holds her breath.  Braces herself for the impact.  Her mother always hated flying.

The plane taxis, takes off.  She exhales as soon as they hit the air, her ears popping from the altitude, and peers out at Jersey below for what may very well be the final time.

Then, and only then, does she let herself cry.


	3. the black magic of mulholland drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You seem a little pensive for someone eating a number 5 outside McDonald's."
> 
> Sometimes perfect strangers are kinder than they ought to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, an update! And a very long one because I got inspired :)

The thing about Los Angeles is that it's fucking big.  It's so fucking big that it could swallow the little city of Clark eighty times over, and still have plenty of room for Newark.  Even New York, when she used to drive there with Him on the weekends, cannot compare to the sheer monstrosity that is Los Angeles.  A Goliath in an army of Philistines; a God among men.  So much space, and yet so little to offer; nearly every spare bit of land has been claimed by hungry, greedy eyes.

She takes the Metro.  She's never taken the subway before.  Her dad used to, back when he was working a nine-to-five, but her mother was claustrophobic and she could never convince her dad to take her with him.  "It's not safe for little girls," he told her, every year, every time she asked.  (Of course, when her brother made the same request, he got what he wanted.  Her parents always liked him better.  She could never please them.)

Standing by the window, gripping the looped strap dangling from the ceiling as the car lurches forward through the tunnel, she can see where her mother was coming from.  Views from the Metro are few and far between; the train spends most of its time underground, its passengers sealed off from the outside world by two layers of thick wall.  She shudders to think what the car will be like come rush hour, crowded and congested with tired bodies waiting for the day to end.

She disembarks at Vermont and Beverly when her stomach starts growling.  She spends a few dollars on a combo at McDonalds, then leaves the hamburger half-eaten for the birds and pours the last of the Red Bull she bought from Frank into her empty Coke cup.  She parks herself on the concrete steps outside the restaurant and drinks, watching the cars roll by.  It's quieter without Him pressed against her, arms bracing her shoulders, His warmth a solid barrier against the cold.  They used to do this back home, sit on the curb splitting a burger and a soda with no words, no sounds but the birds crying above them and the cars rushing past and the occasional person passing.  She can still feel His hands on her shoulders, His arms wrapping around her, His nose in her hair as she shoves Him off--like a phantom pain she can't avoid, a ghost that haunts her every second of every day.

She's sipping her Red Bull, sucking hard through the straw to get the last precious droplets, debating whether or not she should buy herself an ice cream cone, when he comes up to her.  A perfect stranger, albeit one who briefly glanced her way as she stepped up to the counter half an hour ago, but a stranger nonetheless.

"Uh, excuse me," he says.

She sizes him up as she meets his gaze, her annoyance tempered by cautious curiosity.  He doesn't loom over her the way most men do, but he's trim and fit nonetheless; his hair is red and curly, peeking out from his hat; and he regards her with folded arms and a furrowed brow.

"Yeah?" she says, propping her elbow up on her knee.

He scratches the back of his neck, clearing his throat.  His eyes drop to her lap.  "You, uh, you realize there are seats  _inside_  the restaurant, right?"

She raises an eyebrow, poking her tongue into her straw.  "What's your point?"

He shrugs.  "I don't know, you're sitting out here on the concrete, it's fifty degrees, people've probably asked you to move--"

"No, not really."

"Really?"  She nods.  "Huh," he says.  "Okay, but wouldn't you rather be inside where it's, like, warm and you can, I don't know, sit at an actual table?"

She snorts.  "You call that warm?  The shitty heater in my English class does a better job."

" _Riiiight._ "  He draws the word out, regarding her with a thoughtful frown, and in hindsight maybe mentioning English class was a bad idea, but then again, it's not like he can call anyone on her.  "I just thought, y'know.  You seem a little...pensive for someone eating a number 5 outside McDonalds."

"Maybe I am," she says.  "There a problem with that?"

He shakes his head.  "No, not really," he says.

He continues to stand there, and she continues to sit, staring up at him, studying him.  There's this awkwardness in his demeanor, like he doesn't know what to do with himself, that sort of reminds her of her brother.  Shit, how long has it been since she thought about her brother--about either of her brothers?  Not that long, surely--she'd told Sevian she was leaving, dealt with his angry ranting, let him sob into her chest as she held him, kissed Dante goodbye while he slept--

"You okay?" he asks her.

"What?"  There's a pang of something in her chest--not pain, but a tightness, an aching of sorts, and something--a lump--in her throat.  Tears are forming behind her eyes.  She sniffs and rubs at her nose, trying to be discreet.   _Fucking allergies,_ she thinks.  "Yeah, yeah, no, I'm fine, totally.  Why?"

"No, just--for a second there you looked so  _sad._ "

It's an innocent comment.  An observation, really.  And yet it completely does her in, because she sniffs again and then the tears start coming, one after the other, streaming down her cheeks in a perfect storm, and  _fuck_ , she thought she'd cried the last of them out on the plane, but apparently not, because here she is sitting in front of some fucking stranger in front of fucking McDonalds, sobbing and whimpering like somebody's died.

"Shit," he says, as she hunches forward, burying her face in her hands.  Her breath comes in staccato bursts, gasps and hiccups; she can hear herself wailing and her face is so, so wet, soaked with tears and snot and god, is she thankful she wasn't wearing makeup when she left the house because it would be so, so smudged right now.  "Shit, dude, are you okay?"

Her exhale is tremulous as she sits back, wiping her eyes.  Sniff, gasp, shudder.  She tries to crack a smile.  "Yeah," she says, breathlessly.  Sniff.  "No, I just--" She wipes her nose again, attempting a laugh and failing miserably.  "Things-- _hic_ \--have just been-- _hic_ \-- _shit_  lately.  Like-- _hic_ \--total, absolute-- _hic_ \--shit."

He bites his lip and says, "God, that sucks," and the complete concern and sympathy in his voice makes her think of Frank which only makes her cry harder, and he goes, "Oh shit, sorry," as she lets gravity overtake her, sinking further to the ground.

She wants to die.  She wants to lie on the ground and suffocate in her sadness and self-pity because  _she_ did this,  _she_ left, the breakdown on the flight was a goodbye to Jersey and this, this is her penance, her self-reproach; she left Sevian and Dante and all the good things in her life because she couldn't get over a stupid boy.  She really,  _really_  does not deserve to be here.  She doesn't deserve to be alive.

But the man in front of her doesn't know any of this, because he catches her as she starts to slide forward and says, "Whoa, whoa, easy," gently setting her back upright.  She shakes her head and lets out another sob, falling so far forward that by the time he catches her she's pressed up against him, and he's got his arms around her, holding her tight as she cries.

She does not deserve this; she does not deserve any of this.  But none of this matters, not when he's got her so close to him that she can hear his heartbeat, can feel him breathing, steady and sure, against her; not when he's murmuring reassurances and stroking her hair, pushing back the damp strands behind her ear; not when she has been shown kindness for the second time in two days by a man she barely knows.

They remain there for a long time, long enough that when she dares to look up she finds the sky is orange and everything is darker, almost as dark as the night she left.  She clears her throat but takes five minutes to let the words sit, finding the courage to break the silence.

"So," she says, low, husky.  "Bit much, don’t you think?  You haven't even bought me dinner yet."

He chuckles, and his arms slip down her back as he releases her.  She shivers, already missing the warmth of being with someone, of  _being._   "Yeah," he says.  "Yeah, you're right.  I, uh, I should probably introduce myself."  He takes off his cap, scruffs up his hair.  It's curly and messy and really, really quite lovely in the light of dusk.  "I'm Josh," he says, holding out a hand.

She straightens and wipes the last of the tears from her eyes.  "I'm Ashley," she says, and she shakes his hand.


	4. these new friends are golden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I thought you said you weren't bringing any more girls home."
> 
> The former Pretty. Odd Cabaret's no Marriott, but at least it's got hot water.

Josh lives in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of the former Pretty. Odd Cabaret, a handsome but decaying brick building smothered in black-grey-yellow graffiti and in need of more than a few repairs.  Supposedly a hotbed of entertainment and criminal activity in its heyday, the place now houses several floors' worth of tenants and, at its ground level, the Angels & Kings Lounge, where Josh works as a bouncer.

(When he tells her this, she says, " _No way,_ " and claps her hands, eyes wide, and he grins and says, "I may be short, but I'll fuck you up."  Most of them are lonely badasses under 5'10 anyway, he adds, and she giggles and says, "My kind of people."  A lot of her friends back home were taller than her, so to actually be able to look someone in the eye might be a welcome change.)

His apartment ("Casa Joseph-Dun", christened by his roommate, Tyler) is Room #21, distinguishable only by the worn nameplate on its peeling surface and a small series of scratches underneath--not much, just three lines, a right triangle dissected and rearranged into disjointed segments.  She runs her finger over them as she follows Josh inside, traces the marks with her nails and brushes the dust from the plate.  She wonders how long he's lived here, and whether or not he had anything to do with the marks, or whether they are simply remnants of a time long past.

"Tyler, I'm home," Josh calls, and from the kitchen area a distinctly higher voice shouts, "Took you long enough, would it kill you to knock one of these days?"  The voice, Ashley finds out, indeed belongs to Tyler, who's taller and ganglier than Josh but looks considerably younger.  He looks up from the stove and locks eyes with her, but his gaze is more reminiscent of a stunned rabbit than a serial killer.

" _Josh,_ " he says, voice lilting with uncertainty as he turns to face them both, "I thought you said you weren't bringing any more girls home."

"Don't be gross," Josh chides, but he's smirking a little, shoulders relaxed as he leans casually against the doorframe.  "There is a  _lady_  here, in case you haven't noticed."

"Oh, how rude of me," Tyler says, running a hand through his hair before introducing himself.  His hand is warm and he frowns a little when she pulls back, probably from how cold her own touch is.  She flushes and he looks at her, smiling but not quite able to meet her gaze, equal parts bemused and uncertain.  "I'm sorry, Ashley, could you excuse us for a second?" he asks, glancing sideways at Josh, and Josh sighs and follows him out of the kitchen, leaving Ashley to her own devices.

The arguing goes on for a while, but it's mostly civil, at least compared to what she's used to.  She zones out for a bit, goes through her purse, flips through channels on the TV, glances around the room, but every so often her ears catch Josh's lower rumbling, Tyler's higher tones, muffled by the wall separating them.

Eventually they emerge and Tyler tells her she can stay with them, on one condition:  she works at the lounge with them.  (Tyler's a musician by trade but he tends bar on weeknights and works shifts at Trader Joe's to make ends meet, and Josh stocks books at Barnes and Noble when he's not checking IDs at the door.)  The rent's not super-expensive (their landlord's pretty chill about payments), but those costs can really add up and she's going to have to be responsible for herself if she's going to be living under their roof.  (That, and Pete needs a waitress.  Pete owns the lounge.  For some reason he's decided they should serve shitty appetizers in addition to shitty alcohol, but, Tyler says, he's given up on trying to understand Pete.)

Through all of this she's wondering whether she should call home.  She left her cell in her room when she left and she's sure her family's worried sick, but she can't risk them finding out, can't risk them tracing her call and flying all the way across the country to drag her back home,  _can't face her parents her brothers oh God_ \--

Josh offers her his bed.  She refuses, opting to sleep on the couch rather than intrude on their privacy further, but she does begrudgingly accept the blanket he gives her, a warm, red-and-blue quilt sewn by Tyler's mom.  She drifts off that night secure in the knowledge that no matter what happens next, at least she's made it this far.  At least she has people she can turn to.

 

She calls Frank in the morning.  He gave her his number the night before she left and it takes her three tries before she can figure out how to use Josh and Tyler's phone, but it's worth it when she hears his voice, rough but kind, through the speaker.

He asks her how she's doing, and she says good, she found a place and she's getting a job, and he says they're starting to circulate her picture around the neighborhoods, and she sighs and tells him thank you for letting her know, she'll call her parents when she's settled.

He hesitates for a moment, and then, as she's about to hang up, says quietly, "Your brother stopped by the shop the other day."

The receiver nearly slips from her hands.  She stands there holding it, motionless, staring at the wall.  The clock ticks above her.  Five seconds pass, six, seven, eight...

"Ash, you there?"

She holds it up to her ear again, hugging herself with her other arm.  "He wasn't-- _hem_ \--he didn't bring the baby, did he?"

"No, he came alone.  Guess your mom wanted him to hand out posters or something, so he came in with a stack."

She swallows thickly, but the tears don't come, trapped in that strange passageway between head and heart.  "Did he--did he ask about me?"

Frank chuckles.  "Smart kid, your brother.  Took one look at me--he got this look in his eyes like he just  _knew._   I didn't bullshit him.  He's got puppy dog eyes, that kid."

She smiles, laughing a little, and rubs at her temple.  "Yeah, he's pretty persuasive."  Those puppy dog eyes flash in her vision, and her mouth falls shut.   _Don't go,_ she hears in the back of her brain,  _don't leave us, don't leave me, what about me and what about Dante, you can't go--_

"Are you okay?" Frank asks her.

She blinks, and the room comes back into focus.  White walls and popcorn ceiling and basketball posters confront her vision, edges fuzzy and blurred.  She hasn't worn her glasses in a week.  They're tucked away somewhere, at the bottom of her bag, but she can't bring herself to put them on.  From elsewhere in the apartment, Tyler groans.  Footsteps trudge through the hallway.  A tap turns on, water flowing freely.  Frank is breathing on the other end of the line.

"Yeah," she says, forcefully and surely enough that she almost starts to believe it.  "Yeah, I'm fine."


End file.
